The Fairy Quartet
by VR Trakowski
Summary: Four stories written for a fanfic challenge
1. The Fairy Quartet

These stories were written for a "fairy tale challenge" proposed by Preys Guardian on the Prey for Us message board. As soon as I heard about this challenge I was a-brim with ideas, each one sounding better than the last. So I ended up with four of them, though one may stretch the boundaries of the idea a bit; I beg forgiveness. Many thanks to Antha and Karen, who did some last-minute proofreading for me and who don't even watch the show.  
  
The first story is about Sloan and Tom; the second about Ed; the third about Tom; and the fourth about Lewis.  
  
  
  
Tom leaned against the counter, eyes narrowed a bit in thought. "So the bay's transportation service is subsidized?"  
  
Sloan nodded and took a sip of tea from the mug she held. "They're hoping that the commuter system will become popular enough to be profitable, but at the moment the city has to pay for it."  
  
"And the councilwoman was the one responsible for the project?" Tom folded his arms, watching her.  
  
"Yeah." Sloan set down the mug. "Why are you so interested in a bunch of boats?"  
  
"Just trying to get it straight." The faintest hint of a smile played over his face. "So what you're saying is..."  
  
Sloan looked up. "Is what?"  
  
"The councilwoman is the ferry godmother?" He grinned; he couldn't help it.  
  
Her jaw dropped. "Tom!!"  
  
He started to laugh, and Sloan had to join in. 


	2. Imbrium

Most of the characters in this story are the property of ABC TV and other entities, and I do not have any permission to borrow them. Not that I think ABC will notice; it certainly isn't taking very good care of them. However, no infringement is intended, and this story is not for profit. Almost all other characters are my property, and if you want to mess with them, you have to ask me first. Feedback is most appreciated. 

* * * * * 

She walked in a strange garden. This held none of the flowers she knew, no neat rows of tidy little plants, no bushes sculpted into clean geometric shapes. Here, blossoms ran riot, overloading leafy branches; here moss crept across worn flagstones that made bumpy, twisting paths among the greenery; here, fallen petals and dead leaves tangled among bold weeds. When she looked up, she could see trees in the distance, above some of the hedges--giant, twisted, dark trees that had seen centuries pass by. _ A forest, _ some quiet part of her mind suggested, and she agreed with it, and let the thought go. Her business was within the garden, not among the shadows of the trees. 

She had no name because she did not remember that there were such things. She did not know how she had come to be in the garden, nor how she knew what she knew--the names of the plants that she passed (_Lenten rose, forsythia, Jack-in-the-Pulpit, lady's slipper, foxglove, catmint_), the goal that called to her from deeper in the garden. The varied scents--delicate, vivid--wreathed about her as she walked, and sometimes she had to brush pollen or petals from the sleeves of her blouse. The bushes and hedges were so untended that they formed a sort of maze; she could not see over them to see where the paths led. But her feet did not hesitate as she walked, and while she had never been there before, she seemed to know where to go. Hot sunlight poured down on the garden, and the air was so still and silent that her light stride seemed louder than it was. She passed fat bees humming drowsily from flower to flower, saw birds with half-closed eyes perched on inner branches; once she saw the puff of white as a rabbit took itself out of her way without haste. 

It seemed that she wandered for a long time. She never walked the same way twice, and her path eventually wound tighter toward the center of the garden. Someone was waiting for her there. If asked, she would not have been able to say who was waiting, but she knew someone was. 

Finally the flagstones gave way to plushy grass and she stepped into the heart of the garden. It was bigger than she expected, and tidier, though still wild. Hedges sprang away from the point at which she stood, and some distance away stood an old stone fountain, spraying water gently into the air. Bushes and small trees scattered the lawn, which stretched away into an orchard. She could not see the far side, and there was no one in sight. 

She walked forward without haste, drawn to the fountain. The surface rippled gently with the falling droplets, but her image was clear enough when she looked down. And with the sight of her face, she knew her name. Sloan. Red hair curled around a wide-eyed face, and the lips smiled in pleasure. 

With her name came a little more purpose. The person who waited for her needed her help. She had to find him. 

The grass cushioned her feet as she walked. Fruit hung temptingly from the branches in the orchard, mixed with blossoms as out of season as the jumble of flowers in the garden, but Sloan did not pick any. Instead, she pushed gently through the small trees to the other side. 

Here was a thicket of rose-trees, rioting with blooms in every shade imaginable and a few that no one had yet imagined. These Sloan could not resist, and she pulled one carefully from the tangle--white, with a pink-tinged heart. Sticking it haphazardly in her hair, she reached for another. And as the stem snapped on the blossom, she felt someone come up behind her. 

A slender young man stood there, looking shadowed somehow even though the sun was full on him. He stared at her wide-eyed, apparently as startled by her as she was to find him. Dressed in black and brown, he seemed almost out of place in the lush garden; the dull colors of his clothing and his ice-grey eyes made him appear a personification of winter. 

_And what am I? Autumn? _ Sloan thought irreverently, smiling at him. He did not return her smile, but she knew somehow that he was glad to see her. "Hi," she said. "Where'd you come from?" 

He tilted his head a fraction, an indecipherable expression passing over his face. "I'm not sure," he said quietly. "But I know who you are." 

"Yeah?" Sloan glanced down at the rose she held--this one a velvety dark crimson--and held it out to him. It seemed the thing to do, somehow. "Then who am I?" 

He took the rose and lifted it to his face to catch a whiff of its scent. "A friend," he said simply. 

For an instant the image of him crystallized in her mind, and she laid it away in her deepest memories, to take out in some chilly future hour. There would be such, she realized. He stood easily, one lean hand clasping the rose with careful delicacy, and the angle of his head and the line of his body were grace incarnate. In that moment she saw that his eyes were not the ice they appeared; rather, they had the faintest hint of blue in them, like the hot edge of a gas flame. Then his lips lifted in a slight, bemused smile, and he reached out to tuck the crimson rose next to the white one in her hair. 

She shivered as his fingers brushed her temple. "What are we doing here?" she asked. 

He hesitated. "Finding each other, I think," he said finally. He dropped his hand rather awkwardly, as though he didn't know quite what to do with it, and on impulse she took it in hers, fingers sliding between his to clasp firmly. She was rewarded with a sudden, brilliant smile, one that made her grin back. 

"Well, we have," Sloan said. "Now what?" 

His face grew sober again. "What's my name?" he asked. 

Sloan was taken aback. "You mean you don't know?" she questioned, then remembered that she had not known her own until she had seen her face. 

He shook his head. "I can't...I don't..." 

"Huh." Sloan's eyes narrowed in thought. "Well, let's go back to the fountain, then. That's where--" 

She broke off at his frown. "No, Sloan," he said quietly. "You have to give me my name." 

Sloan blinked, confused. "You know mine, but you don't know yours?" 

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug, and his free hand traced the line of her cheekbone, the curve of her lips. His eyes never left hers. "You have to give it to me." 

_I don't understand this, _ Sloan thought, half mesmerized by his touch. And then, without knowing how, she did. 

"Tom," she said softly. "Your name is Tom." 

His eyes closed in relief, then opened again, and she felt herself drawn toward him by the strength of his gaze, by the gentle warmth of his hand. 

And then the light dimmed. 

* * * * *

Their heads snapped up as the sun vanished behind a cloud that came from nowhere. Tom tensed, noting the sudden appearance of a looming, unnatural thunderstorm overhead. A chilly wind snaked through the garden, tossing a few leaves into the air, stripping petals from the more delicate flowers. It was, he knew, a precursor to much more violent weather. 

His grip tightened on Sloan's hand. "We have to get out of here," he told her, raising his voice to be heard over the rushing air. 

Sloan's hair whipped around her face and she raised a hand to pull it out of her eyes. "What's the fastest way out?" 

Tom thought a moment, then pointed down a path that paralleled the orchard. "That way." He refused to speculate how he had this knowledge; time for that later, when Sloan was safe. They hurried down the grassy lane, bowing their heads a little against the wind. Tom could smell moisture in the air--and, more alarmingly, lightning. The garden was dangerous; they needed to be under the shelter of the forest. 

The sky grew darker as the clouds spread. The skirling wind pushed at them one moment and tugged the next, alternately helping and hindering their speed. Tom moved as quickly as he thought Sloan could, wanting to go faster. Something cold had invaded the garden, and it was moving toward them. 

They found the source of the chill sooner than he had anticipated, or it found them. The orchard path led them through gaps in a couple of hedges, emptying out on a broad avenue that went straight to a silver gate, twice their height and thick with curlicues. It was open. Already rain was spitting through the air, stinging as it struck their skin. They hurried over the dampening grass, half-running; Tom could see the thick trees outside the gate, just beyond a swath of lawn. But they were yet a few yards short when someone stepped from the shadow of the hedge, barring their way. 

Tom halted. He knew this man. 

The figure folded his arms, supremely casual, knowing his power over them--they could not move beyond him. And Tom knew that the swelling storm overhead was the white-haired man's doing, too--that he meant to destroy not only them but the garden as well. 

"I thought you'd never get here," Lewis said mockingly. He smiled, gesturing at Sloan. "Did you really think I'd let you get away with this, Tom?" 

Tom's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, merely stepping in front of Sloan to bar Lewis' way to her. He heard her swallow hard, felt her fingers tighten on his before she let him go. He stood still, silently defiant. 

Lewis raised one hand. 

* * * * *

To Sloan's eyes, the man between them and the gate seemed made of ice. His hair was snowy, his eyes were glacier-hard, and the cruel smile on his face made her blood run cold. When Tom moved to protect her, she let him, rather than argue; the man frightened her badly, and Tom was far stronger and faster than she. She scarcely paused to puzzle over how she knew so much about someone she'd only just met. But as their adversary moved, she saw that his attention was reserved for Tom. She was only a handle, a gap in Tom's armor. It was Tom who was in danger. 

Even as she realized this, the man's hand moved sharply. Sloan opened her mouth, but no sound came out; her throat seemed paralyzed, as in a nightmare. Light flashed, and a blast of intense cold hit her. She sucked in a startled breath and blinked furiously, trying to clear the dazzle. 

Tom still stood motionless before her. But now he glistened, coated in a thin, shiny glaze of ice. Sloan stared in horror. Tom's eyes were open but blank beneath the gleaming shell, and when she snatched at his hand her fingers slid right off his stiff sleeve. She tried again, gripping harder, but instead of melting, the ice seemed to suck the warmth from her skin, leaving it aching with cold. 

She whirled to face their adversary. "What have you done to him?" she shouted, suddenly furious, and still so frightened. 

Lewis laughed, and she shuddered. "He's mine again," the man said. "I never let anything go." The gate swung shut behind him, shutting with a clang that made her jump. 

"The ice will melt," Lewis continued, "eventually. I suggest you leave before then. He won't be very pleased to see you." 

Sloan's stomach turned queasy at his expression. Lewis turned and walked easily away down the avenue, the way they'd come. Sloan wondered why he didn't finish her, and as though he heard her thought, he turned. "You can hide if you want," he said, almost carelessly. "It won't make any difference." Then he went on, vanishing between the hedges. 

Sloan shuddered again, then glanced overhead. The storm was still moving, but it almost seemed as if the clouds were waiting. She hugged herself against the wind and studied the frozen man in front of her. All the other problems were secondary to this. She couldn't leave him, and she certainly couldn't carry him. 

What was the ice doing to him? She had the sudden, bizarre thought that it was sinking into him, freezing him through and through. Sloan shook the thought off, but it persisted, and she tried to ignore it. _ If only I had some way to build a fire! That might do the trick. _ But the rain that even now was soaking through her clothes would not allow her to start one by friction, and she had no other way. And not too much time, she realized, looking up again. It was growing darker yet, as though the sun was beginning to set behind the roiling clouds. 

She tried scraping at the ice on Tom's arm, warming his hand between her palms, even thumping her fist on his chest to see if the thin glaze would crack. But nothing seemed to affect it; he did not even rock a little in his stance. Sloan frowned, frustrated and angry and scared. _I have to get him out of there! _

She ran her hands through her dripping hair. _ Hey. _ The rain should either be melting the ice on Tom or freezing to it; yet it did neither, simply running down and dripping off as though the slick surface had nothing to do with water. Sloan began shivering in earnest. _It's not natural. How did Lewis do that, anyway? It's almost like he... _

Sloan's thought trailed off at the idea; then she shrugged. "Well, it's traditional, anyway," she said softly, and stepped forward until she was face-to-face with Tom. Taking his head in her hands and wincing at the numbing cold, she pressed her lips against the shiny hardness of his mouth. 

For a long moment nothing happened, and despair welled up as the cold rushed up along her skin. Then heat exploded inside her, expanding to meet the cold, and the chill vanished. The ice beneath her lips disappeared; she could feel cool skin emerge against her fingertips; and in the space of a breath, the imprisoning shell was gone. Tom's arms came stiffly up to encircle her and he returned her kiss for a sweet instant; then he lifted his head, eyes wide with surprise, and began shivering almost too hard to stand. 

Sloan half-laughed, trying to ignore the sudden tears in her eyes, and slid an arm around him as he staggered. "C'mon," she said breathlessly. "We have to get out of here." 

Tom nodded, but pulled the other way when she started toward the gate. "Not that way," he said, shaking with cold. "It'll be locked." 

Sloan hesitated a moment, then helped him back the way they had come, keeping a wary eye out for Lewis. "Is there another gate?" she asked, blinking away tears and rain. 

"Probably," Tom answered, looking around at the sprawl of hedges and flowerbeds. 

Sloan shook her head. "We don't have time to look. I have an idea." 

They made their way to the tall green wall of vegetation that delineated one edge of the garden. Peering to her left, Sloan could just make out the dull gleam of the gate further on, but then she turned her attention to the leaves in front of her. Tom straightened away from her, still shivering but not as badly, and Sloan thrust her arms into the branches and pried them apart. 

It took several attempts, but she managed to find a place where the hedge was not as dense. Tom pulled her out of the way then, and began tearing out the branches with methodical precision and astounding strength. Before too long he had cleared a narrow passageway of sorts, and they pushed and squirmed and struggled through, emerging scratched and breathless--but free. 

Sloan had to laugh at the twigs and scraps decorating Tom's sweater, and he gave her a small smile and brushed leaves from her hair. "You still have the roses," he told her softly. "Let's go." 

"What about..." Sloan gestured at the storm overhead, meaning Lewis as well. 

Tom shook his head. "We'll worry about that later," he said, and took her hand. "Come on." 

They ran for the shelter of the forest. 


	3. Interface

Most of the characters in this story are the property of ABC TV and other entities, and I do not have any permission to borrow them. Not that I think ABC will notice; it certainly isn't taking very good care of them. However, no infringement is intended, and this story is not for profit. All other characters are my property, and if you want to mess with them, you have to ask me first. Feedback is most appreciated.  
  
  
  
Interface  
  
  
  
Ed took another swallow of beer and sighed happily. *Sun, sand, surf...nothin' like it.* The grains he sat on were warm, and he set his bottle aside and stretched out on his back. It was the first truly warm day of spring, and he wore only a t-shirt to top off his swim trunks. Further down the slope of the beach, the ocean hissed onto shore and drew back, again and again. He gave the water a slightly regretful glance, but the surf was high today and his recent illness had left him a bit weak yet. He wasn't foolish enough to go out with his board when he wasn't in top condition.  
  
*Still, I've got the day off and nothing to do.* Normally, he and Sloan would have taken such a day and done something together, but she was off with Tom on some project or another. Ed sighed, and pushed away a twinge of jealousy. He didn't get to spend much time with his friend any more. Not that he worried about Tom's loyalty any longer, but it was still a little lonely when your best friend fell in love. And Sloan was in love all right, it was obvious--even if she hadn't admitted it to herself yet.  
  
He rolled over onto his stomach and idly traced a drop of condensation as it slid down the beer bottle. Peace washed over him with the sound of the ocean. Ever since they'd gotten back from Alaska, he'd been driven by the need to find some way to strike back at the new species. But when he'd showed up at the lab that morning, Walter had promptly chased him back out again, telling him not to return until he got some of his tan back. Ed had been able to leave his tension at the edge of the beach. The shore had always been a refuge for him.  
  
He sat up again, stretching. It was the middle of the week and off-season, and so he'd seen few people that morning. In fact, the beach was now deserted. Brushing half-heartedly at the clinging sand, Ed stood up, picked up his bottle, and began sauntering back to the spot where he'd left his gear. The bottle was empty, so he exchanged it for the full one, and after a moment's thought, added a sandwich. He'd only brought two beers, anyway, since he had to drive back to his apartment. *Not till later.*  
  
Ed wandered off again, letting his feet go where they willed, and they pleased to take him further down the beach, away from the parking lot and toward the rock outcropping that halted the swath of sand. Confronted by the rock, Ed stuffed the sandwich and the bottle into the pockets of his shorts and began exploring the jagged rocks. Surf crashed up against the furthest ones, and Ed could see tendrils of water frothing and sliding among the stones. The tide was about to turn, and would soon creep back up the beach.  
  
The heap of stone was bigger than he'd expected. He knew there was another beach on the far side, but he had never considered how much space the rocks took up. Deciding to find a place to sit and munch, Ed worked his way back from the ocean, trying to find a place where he wouldn't be suddenly drenched by spray.  
  
Edging around a clifflike boulder, he was surprised to find a narrow gap leading into the rocks. He peered in and found it became a passageway floored with water-tumbled stones. He laughed to himself. *Wow, this is beginning to look like a kid's book or something. "Treasure in the Rocks,"* he titled, and eyed the gap. Narrow it was, but he would fit. So he turned his shoulders and edged inside.  
  
A couple of times he thought he would have to turn back, but each close space turned out to have just enough room for him to squeeze by. The walls climbed until they were a good four feet over his head, and when he looked up all he could see was a bright strip of blue sky. Mostly he had to watch his feet. He made a mental note to be careful how much time he spent in here--this was not a journey he wanted to retrace in a hurry, and the tide could come in fast.  
  
The passage turned and twisted, so Ed figured that he didn't cover a lot of linear distance, but finally it gave out into a roughly round space floored with sand. Intrigued, Ed looked around. Dried weed and bits of debris were lodged in the rough walls; the chamber was no more than six yards across, and its sandy floor sloped down into a tidepool. *Must have an outlet under water,* he thought, watching the gentle ripples slide across it and lap against the far wall. *I wonder how deep it gets when the tide is full?*  
  
He dropped down to sit on the sand, breathing deeply and frowning in annoyance. *Lung capacity's still not up to par. How long is it going to take?* He hated being sick. Rubbing idly at the scrapes the rocks had inflicted on him, he wondered if anyone had ever been here before. The idea of being the first gave him a mild thrill, but he scoffed at the idea. *Somebody's got to have found it sometime. Probably kids use it as a secret clubhouse during the summer...*  
  
But the sand was so smooth, combed by the sea, and the hush was so complete, that Ed felt as though he were not only the first to enter the chamber, but the only person in the world. When he looked up and saw a gull sail by, he was almost shocked by the suddenness of it.  
  
Slowly, his heart and breathing returned to normal after his exertions. He took off his shoes and dug his feet into the sand, the feeling of peace returning, stronger than before. There was no threatening new species here, no inevitable evolution, no danger; no mystery but the eternal one of the sea. Even the tiny lapping of the tidepool made no sound.  
  
Digging out his sandwich--slightly squashed--and his bottle, Ed set them down and got up to take a closer look at the pool. As he rose, the sun slipped past one wall and poured light down into the water, which lit with a greeny-gold iridescence. Ed squinted a bit and peered into the pool. Something pale gleamed below the surface, maybe a foot or so...  
  
Letting out a yelp, he stumbled backward a step and swore, his voice echoing oddly off the walls. The pale blur was a face, eyes wide, dark hair fogging about it like a stormcloud. *So much for no one ever coming here before!*  
  
He took a deep breath, swallowed, and edged back. *Get a grip. It's not like you've never seen a body before. And it can't be any worse than Lynch.* He pushed away the memory of that charred corpse as he leaned back over the pool. *Wait a minute...eyes?*  
  
Ed knew that the eyes were the first things a scavenger would go for in the water. The body in the pool must not have been there long at all. But when he looked down into the water, the face was gone. Nothing but shining sand until the shadow of the wall fell across the deeper end.  
  
Ed sat down heavily. *I know I saw it. I know it. But that's impossible...unless...*  
  
He began to laugh shakily. Whoever the face belonged to, they were obviously quite alive. The person must have swum in through the underwater entrance, and had been just as startled to see Ed. "Sure, that's it," he said mockingly. "You're not cracking up."  
  
Then he sobered. Actually, the more he looked at it, the less sense that made. *Okay, maybe I could have missed the waves when the person came in. But wouldn't they have to come up for air?* There had been no sign of a breathing device. He reconstructed the rock outcropping in his mind. If he had his bearings right...and his sense of direction was nearly infallible...the rock that made up the far wall was solid clear through to the ocean side. And the sea was far too rough for someone to swim up to those rocks--they'd get battered to pieces against the stone. *Maybe there's another entrance--or some kind of sideways passage--*  
  
The pool's surface rocked, and bigger wavelets splashed onto the sand. Ed scrambled to his knees. *They're back!*  
  
Before he could lean over, the person reappeared, arching up out of the water with a suddenness that had Ed jerking back. For a long moment, they both froze, staring at each other.  
  
Ed saw a wide pale face, eyes so dark a purple as to be nearly black, streaming ebony hair with weed tangled in it. His eye automatically defined the face as female--its features were delicate, though lax with surprise--even before his gaze slid a little lower. No clothing at all. Milky-white skin marked with a few pale scars, small breasts half covered by the long hair, the torso disappearing into water cloudy with stirred-up sand. Pale arms with a faint spattering of golden freckles, hands invisible below the water as she braced herself upright. There was something odd about her ribs, Ed thought in the midst of his surprise, but propriety had him looking back to her face.  
  
"Um...hi," he said tentatively.  
  
The woman tilted her head a fraction, reminding him unnervingly of Tom for an instant, but she did not answer. Ed tried again. "How...how did you get in here? Is there an underwater tunnel?"  
  
He was doing his best not to stare, or to babble, but she was extraordinary, and not just because she was half-naked. Ed had done his own share of skinny-dipping, after all, though never at a public beach during the day. He was beginning to feel very uncomfortable under her steady gaze. Then one corner of her mouth twitched up, a thoughtful look, and she cleared her throat and said something in a light, slightly hoarse voice. Unfortunately, he didn't understand her.  
  
"Sorry, could you repeat that?" he asked weakly. *This is weird.*  
  
She said something else instead, and it made no sense to him either. In fact, he didn't even recognize the language; it sounded vaguely like Greek. He shook his head helplessly, and she shrugged, and lifted one hand to push a strand of hair off her forehead. Her fingers, he noticed, were slightly webbed. *Definitely weird. And...getting...weirder...*  
  
His thoughts trailed off into incoherence as she shifted her weight in the water. Instead of swinging her legs around to sit, she swung something blue-silver-green and solid, and his mind gibbered faintly at the sight of the muscular, shimmering, fluked tail that now curved sinuously half out of the water.  
  
*It has to be a fake, a special effect.* That was the first thought that made it to the surface of his mind. But he couldn't take his eyes from it, and it didn't look fake. It looked scaled and streamlined and real, and he could see the tiny tremors of shifting muscles run across it under the skin.  
  
He stared and stared, part of him trying to will it to be fake, part of him trying to figure out how it worked if it was real, part of him shouting in wild joy from his childhood--*It's real! Magic is real!* His hand itched to stroke that glistening surface and see what it felt like--cool or warm, soft or firm.  
  
But before he could make a fool of himself, the tail twitched--and he sputtered as she used the filmy fins to toss a splash of water in his face. By the time he wiped the salt from his eyes, his mind was under control, and he had to grin at her mischievous expression. She smiled back; her teeth were white and small and slightly pointed.  
  
"Well, you're definitely not my field," he said, sitting back down on the sand. "I was never interested in marine biology."  
  
She spoke again, sounding like she was doing the same thing: talking because silence seemed awkward, even if the other could not understand. *She *sounds* friendly, anyway,* Ed thought. *I hope I do too.*  
  
There were a thousand questions he was dying to ask, but there would be no answers. He held out one hand tentatively near her tail, palm down, and looked questioningly at her. She cocked her head, then nodded.  
  
Her tail was cool to the touch, and firm; it felt like the surface of a dolphin more than anything else he could think of, though it was faintly rippled with scales where a dolphin was smooth. And it bore the unmistakable resilience and pulse of life. I don't know what she is-- magic, genetic engineering, or what--but this is part of her.* Ed shook his head at this ancient myth alive in front of him. When he lifted his hand away, she leaned forward in turn and did the same thing--asking without words if she could examine his legs.  
  
"Sure. Turnabout is fair play..." He stuck them out, resting his heels in the water, and she ran cool fingers over them, exclaiming softly over the hair on his calves and the fact that he had toes. *Hasn't she seen a human before? After all, she can apparently breathe air...*  
  
He craned his neck as she leaned over his legs. The oddity of her torso that he'd noticed in the midst of his shock was more obvious now. Her ribcage was longer than normal, and wider as well, though not enough to make her grossly out of proportion. Ed wondered what was hidden under her dripping hair, which plastered itself in tendrils to her skin.  
  
The mermaid sat back on her tail again and regarded him thoughtfully. Feeling a bit awkward, he reached back for his sandwich and bottle and offered them to her.  
  
Smiling again, she took the bottle and removed the screw top with the ease of practice. Ed kept his jaw from dropping, barely. "You've seen beer before?" Then he gave himself a mental smack. Humans had been dropping stuff in the ocean for thousands of years, and not always on purpose.  
  
He watched as she sniffed delicately at the bottle's mouth; her eyebrows-- thin curves of black--rose, and she took a careful sip. He had to grin at the expression on her face. *Of course, the carbonation's gotta be new to her.* Opening a beer bottle underwater would immediately dilute the beer with seawater. She rolled the liquid around in her mouth with the care of an expert taster, then swallowed, and took a larger mouthful before handing back the bottle.  
  
Ed took it and regarded it for a moment, thinking about pathogens, then thought the heck with it, and took a gulp himself. They passed the bottle back and forth for a few companionable, silent minutes before she took the sandwich.  
  
Again, the plastic wrapper did not seem a mystery to her. But this time her nose wrinkled at the smell of peanut butter, and she handed the sandwich back with an apologetic shrug. Ed grinned and rewrapped it. "Not your kind of stuff, huh? Guess you're more a sushi type."  
  
The mermaid pushed a strand of hair out of her face and said something back. The black coils were beginning to dry in the warm air, but she kept dipping her tail to be sure that the surface remained wet. Her gaze took on an intensity that made him slightly nervous; it was as though she were trying to decide something about him. Then she leaned forward again and took both bottle and sandwich, tossing them gently back behind him, away from the pool.  
  
Ed followed their flight and turned back, puzzled. The mermaid said something that sounded like a question, and held out one hand to him. Ed put his own in it, and she immediately began tugging him into the pool.  
  
"Whoa!" Ed dug his heels in, literally. "Where're we going?"  
  
Her grip tightened, and she spoke again, gesturing seaward. *She wants me to go with her?*  
  
He shook his head. "I'll drown," he tried to explain, putting a hand to his throat. "I can't--"  
  
She laid one soft finger over his lips. His eyes crossed as he tried to get a better look at its webbing, but her voice made him look back up. Her expression was gentle; he hadn't a clue what she was saying, but it occurred to him that she must know of his limitations. *In fact, I don't know if *she* can breathe water. All I know is that she's supposed to be a myth--*  
  
She had both his hands now, and was pulling again, but not so hard that he could not free himself easily if he wanted to. *Do I want to?*  
  
A tangle of myths spun through his head. Mermaids in legends drowned sailors, enticing them to their deaths with beautiful song. Yet this one hadn't sung a note, and her voice sounded perfectly ordinary. She was impossible, but he'd seen a lot of impossible things lately. As a scientist, he made a career of exploration. And if she did mean him harm, well, he was a strong swimmer.  
  
"Okay," he said, and gave into her pull. She tugged him halfway into the water, then let one hand go and wrapped her fingers firmly around his other wrist. He took as deep a breath as he could--then they slid below the surface. Ed caught one glimpse of the hole through the wall that she must have used before she gave one incredibly powerful push with her tail, and they were through it.  
  
He shut his eyes against the sand, but he could feel the rush of water that told him they were moving quickly, and the beat of her tail sent pulses through the water to bounce off his skin. He kicked carefully, trying to help a bit, but wary of hitting the tunnel walls with his bare feet.  
  
He was beginning to worry about how much air was left in his lungs when light swept over them. The mermaid led him up at an angle, and they reached the surface beyond the waves' breaking line.  
  
Ed sucked in a deep breath and began kicking to stay afloat. The mermaid bobbed in the water nearby, grinning at him, and he grinned back. Then she arched back into the water, her tail glistening briefly in the sun before she disappeared below the surface. A hand gripped his ankle, shaking it playfully, and he filled his lungs again and ducked down.  
  
She hovered in the water a few feet away, and he knew without a doubt that, no matter her origins, she was in her element. Her hair waved around her head with the motion of the water, and her tail was natural and perfect. He was the one out of place.  
  
She held out her hand again; he took it, and they were off through her blue- green, sunlit, moving world. Watching her back as they swam, he noticed- beyond amazement now-that she possessed a set of gills that ran parallel to her ribs along her back. *That explains her ribcage.* He could see the protective flaps of skin rise and fall as she breathed, and he was wildly curious as to how her body could fit in the mechanisms for breathing both water and air. The water was relatively shallow here, and she would let him go so he could rise to the surface to breathe, but she was a much more powerful swimmer and he let her pull him along. When they got to steeper slopes and she angled down them, he hesitated; he could only go on holding his breath for so long.  
  
The mermaid looked at him again, apparently puzzled. Then she closed the gap between them, and before he quite knew what was happening, her lips were on his. Air bubbled from their mouths, tickling his nose, and he suddenly realized what she was trying to do. He let her seal her lips over his, and breathed in. Her breath was warm and tasted faintly of beer and fish, but it was oxygen-rich and he was grateful. *I'd give a lot to know how she does that!* he thought, and smiled at her when she let him go. The whole day was beginning to take on a dreamlike quality.  
  
She led him deeper, further, replenishing his air every so often. They moved through schools of tiny fish and saw huge ones cruising past; they parted curtains of seaweed and drifted over corals and beds of crustaceans. Once they dove deeper as a motorboat passed by overhead; twice, a strange rumbling seemed to make the water tremble faintly, and it took him a while to realize that the sound that quivered in his bones was whalesong from some distant cetacean. Ed saw the ocean from the mermaid's perspective, untrammeled by mask or wetsuit or oxygen tank. He watched her scatter a flutter of fish with a flick of her tail and stroke the fearsome nose of the biggest moray eel he'd ever seen. Wonder piled on wonder until it all became a vibrant, salty blur. And then it faded gently to black.  
  
*****  
  
Ed woke uncomfortable-chilled, sticky, aching, and thirsty beyond belief. He lifted his painful head and looked around; he was lying on his stomach as though he had just crawled out of the ocean, and a retreating wave was lacing his ankles with foam. Dazed, he got unsteadily to his feet. *What the heck--*  
  
A voice called behind him, though he couldn't make out the words. Turning, he saw a black head bobbing just beyond the waves, a white arm waving. Memory flooded back, and with it, understanding. *Lack of oxygen. I must have passed out.* Even the mermaid's breath had not been enough.  
  
Steadying himself, he waved back. She shouted again, then dove; her tail flashed in the setting sun, and she was gone. He watched for a long time, but she did not reappear.  
  
The whole thing seemed suddenly preposterous. Surely he'd just fallen asleep on the beach, and the tide had caught him. Surely the person in the water had just been a swimmer who had pulled him back onto the shore.  
  
But if that were so, why hadn't the swimmer come out of the water with him, and pulled him completely away from the waves? Where had she gone when she'd dived? She'd never resurfaced.  
  
His head hurt too much right now to disbelieve it, Ed finally decided. He spotted his bag not too far away, and squelched tiredly toward it. He had seen too many "impossible" things recently to dismiss the day's experiences out of hand. "I'll think about it later," he muttered to himself. "After some painkillers."  
  
Picking up the bag, he turned to look back over the ocean one last time. The setting sun was beginning to stain the water orange; nothing moved in its glittering expanse but the waves. A small smile crossed Ed's face, and he started walking back to his van, an old line of poetry running through his head. *If the bards of old the truth have told, the sirens had raven hair...* 


	4. Spinner

Most of the characters in this story are the property of ABC TV and other entities, and I do not have any permission to borrow them. Not that I think ABC will notice; it certainly isn't taking very good care of them. However, no infringement is intended, and this story is not for profit. All other characters are my property, and if you want to mess with them, you have to ask me first. Feedback is most appreciated.  
  
  
  
Spinner  
  
  
  
The old man walked slowly across the dusty ground toward the tree on the other side of the vegetable garden. He adjusted his breather carefully, inhaling the richer oxygen but deploring its flat and sterile smell, and settled down in the deep shade of the tree. He flexed his creaky fingers in their supple gloves, then tucked the pillow he'd brought with him behind his back and leaned against the rough bark of the tree trunk. Then, as he'd expected, the children saw him.  
  
They came running and bounding, full of energy, though they carefully skirted the garden. "Elder! Tell us a story," they begged as they neared, and he smiled.  
  
"I will if you'll settle down," he replied, and they dropped down obediently, carefully edging within the shade of the tree. A couple of them immediately picked up cast-off purple leaves to fiddle with, but he ignored their fidgeting. He waited until they were all settled and quiet, their eyes focusing on him, before beginning.  
  
"Long ago, in the Time Before...there lived a little boy." He let his gaze drift past them, over the greeny-blue vegetation of the garden, to the deep hard violet-blue of the sky. "He was a good boy, always doing what his mother told him, for he knew that survival depended on obedience. Not just his survival, but that of his whole species."  
  
The children nodded. Everybody knew that. The old man smiled again and went on. "He had siblings, but he was the smartest of them, and when he grew old enough, he was taken away to be trained as a chameleon--a great honor. Only the best could hope for that."  
  
The children grew rapt at that. The chameleons were from the Time Before-- half-legendary figures of a war that had ended long before their parents were born. The old man remembered them personally, though, and he blessed the fact that they were no longer needed.  
  
"The boy did well in his training. He showed a natural aptitude for the skills he was taught, and it was not long before his mentor believed him to be one of the best he had ever trained."  
  
"What was his name?" one of the children asked.  
  
"Tom." The old man's eyes clouded with memory, and he raised one hand to twitch his breather again. "His name was Tom, and he was born a prince."  
  
Faint, high clouds cast a thin veil over the fierce sun, but the children paid no attention to the sky. "What happened?" an older girl asked.  
  
The old man's fingers slid gently against his palm. "Tom was one of those selected to be a leader--one of those whose destiny was foretold long before his birth. As such, he got the best of training, but his skills made him part of the chameleon program as well. And he carried out his assignments with loyalty and thoroughness...until the day he was ordered to eliminate a child."  
  
There was a stir and a rustle at that. Young were to be protected, not harmed. The old man blessed the fact that things had changed so much since the story he related had taken place. *There was a time...* He pulled his thoughts back to the tale.  
  
"At the time," he reminded them, "that was permitted. It was a war."  
  
The children subsided. They knew their history. "Did he do it?" one asked breathlessly.  
  
The storyteller shook his head. "No. He was about to carry out his assignment when the boy's mother came in. And she pleaded for her son's life. Tom let the boy live, and went away to think. All his life he had been taught that human life was of no value, and that the human emotions he could sense were useless things of the past. But he began to wonder.  
  
"But he did not tell his mentor that he had not completed his task." A hint of a smile crossed the weathered face at the expressions of disapproval that a few children showed. "He was confused, so he was silent. And then he was assigned a new target."  
  
The old man closed his eyes, summoning a picture that he could describe to his listeners.  
  
"She was a scientist, one who had begun to discover the secret of our species, our existence. In fact, her own mentor was eliminated. But Tom was told to get close to her, to find out what she knew, and then to kill her.  
  
"She shone like a Renaissance princess--rich red hair and rich, deep emotions. The first time Tom met her he was struck to the heart by her-- though at the time he would never have admitted to having a heart. She glowed with feeling, with compassion, with warmth--he had never met anyone like her. And he was enchanted. Whenever he was near her, he felt what she felt, will he or not.  
  
"That did not hinder him in his plans, however. His skills served him well as he made his way into her life. She trusted him, all unknowing of what he was and what he meant to do, and while that was what he intended, it still touched him. She was as intelligent as one of his own kind, possessed of discipline and intuition both, and gradually it came to him that he did not want to her to die, even though she was a grave danger to his people. Even more than that, he realized, he did not want her death to be at his hands."  
  
He paused a moment, opening his eyes to look around. None of the children appeared restless or bored, so he went on.  
  
"Dr. Sloan Parker, however, had little notion of the danger she was in, and her courage would not have allowed danger to stop her anyway. He grew to admire her strength of purpose. But the time came for him to eliminate her, and he bowed to his duty and went to carry out his mission.  
  
"Somehow she sensed what he meant to do, and fled from him. It would have been easy for him to catch her, a mere moment's effort, but he found himself reluctant. Instead he chased her, wondering and confused at his own hesitation, until she managed to escape. He watched her go, and when she was gone, it was as though he had woken from a dream, or a spell. Disgusted with himself, he went to her home to await her. This time he would accomplish what he was supposed to do.  
  
"The police came with her, but their search was laughable, and Tom waited until Sloan was alone before emerging from hiding. In a moment she was in his grasp, terrified and helpless." The old man swallowed against his dry throat at the image. "It was as though he held some trembling, fragile bird in his hands; her neck would be as easy to snap as the spine of a feathered creature. She knew what he was, and why he was there, but she would not give in. So frightened she could barely speak, she pulled the truth from him that he had denied for days. He could not kill her."  
  
The children's eyes were huge and intent on him, and none of them spoke. The elder adjusted his breather again; it felt sometimes as though even the extra oxygen was not enough.  
  
"She believed in him-believed so strongly that he could not close his fingers to finish her. And when tears spilled from her eyes, welling from her fear and hurt and the pity she felt for his desperate confusion, he let her go.  
  
"It was as though that salt water broke the hold of Tom's training and his life. He straightened up, feeling calm for the first time in weeks, and- for the first time ever-completely alone. It was a bitter feeling. Without his purpose, he had nothing-his failure to complete his mission was a betrayal of all his people, and their faces would be turned from him, their hands against him. But their goal no longer seemed so right, so sure, and until he could think things through, he could not work toward it."  
  
He stopped, and after a moment a small boy piped up. "What happened? Did he stay with her?"  
  
The old man laughed a little. "Not then. He knew she would be in greater danger if he stayed. But before he could go, Sloan asked him if he would be in danger too, and if he would fight that danger when it came. And he made a decision, and he told her he would. And then he left."  
  
He raised his eyes to look over their heads, and saw a much younger man approaching from the dome beyond. "Here comes your teacher."  
  
There was muted grumbling at this, but the children began to get up. "Will you tell us the rest of the story later?" the oldest girl asked.  
  
"Tomorrow." He accepted her hand in rising from the dusty ground, and brushed rather futilely at the clinging redness. She nodded gravely and then skipped off to join her classmates. The elder shook his head at the energy of youth and made his slow way back toward the dome. His bones were aching and a chill had settled on him; he'd been sitting too long.  
  
He was met halfway there by a woman not much older than the children's teacher; she had all the poise and confidence of adulthood, but he could easily remember when she was a gangly six-year-old, tearing around and getting into everything. Her dark hair was confined in a heavy braid and she swung a carryall by her side, but she slipped her arm through his as though she had nothing to do that day but walk with him. He appreciated it.  
  
"Is the oxygen low today?" he asked, gesturing toward the breather that dangled, unused, from its strap around her neck.  
  
She shrugged, blue eyes dancing. "Not much more than usual. I had to go up in the mountains for a while, that's all; Dr. Matt wanted some more lichen samples."  
  
The old man nodded. "Did your mother send you after me?"  
  
She laughed. "Come on, great-grandfather. Can't I just want to spend some time in your company?"  
  
He chuckled and patted her arm where it rested on his. "Well, I'm glad to see you too."  
  
The young woman hooked the carryall's strap over her shoulder. "In fact, I might come by tomorrow to hear the rest of the story. All my memories of home are a child's."  
  
He snorted. "There's not so much of home in that one; it's more a history tale now."  
  
"But it was the beginning," she reminded him softly, and he had to agree. For a moment he smelled the warm air and rich scents that he would never experience again, remembered a time when desperation and the threat of war pressed so hard that he'd wondered if they would ever survive. And then he pulled himself back to the present. He was alone now, but what he and his beloved had accomplished was greater than they had ever dreamed.  
  
They headed into the dome, leaving the hard sky and the tiny sun behind. A thin wind kicked up more fine red dust. 


	5. Angelicus

Most of the characters in this story are the property of ABC TV and other entities, and I do not have any permission to borrow them. Not that I think ABC will notice; it certainly isn't taking very good care of them. However, no infringement is intended, and this story is not for profit. Almost all other characters are my property, and if you want to mess with them, you have to ask me first. Feedback is most appreciated. 

* * * * *

A cloak of feathers bore her down. A dark, rich scent filled her throat, edged with the faintest hint of metallic bitterness, and she wanted to fight the ebony plumes, but lassitude bound her limbs and she sank...sank into feathers and darkness... 

Her eyes popped open. Dark it was, but there was the garish glow of her clock-radio not two feet away, and she could see familiar shapes in the dimness--the lamp, the edge of her pillow. She drew in a deep breath and let it out again, feeling the stickiness of sweat filming her skin. _Just another nightmare, Doctor, _ she told herself. _ It's over now. _

* * * * *

When she walked into her office that morning, the lab techs who saw her pass would never have guessed that she had spent two futile hours trying to get back to sleep. Her suit was without crease, her honey-brown hair was swept up into its perfect sleek wrap, her high heels gave her a few of the extra inches that nature had denied her. She changed her jacket for an immaculate lab coat and headed for the secured section to see what had been learned from their latest subject. 

The doctor stood behind the one-way mirror and watched. The female restrained in the examining chair below was a real prize, and once again the doctor was grateful that she worked for a federal agency that could sidestep troublesome rules about protecting people's rights. She believed wholeheartedly in human rights...but the creature in the chair was not human. 

"Dr. Anastasia?" One of her subordinates stepped into the observation room. "I'm glad you're here. The hemoglobin results are extraordinary, you should take a look." 

She turned to glance at the big man. "I'll be along in a minute, Walter." She permitted herself a small, private smile as he nodded and withdrew. Authority and chain of command were essential in a project like this--and the authority was hers. 

The doctor looked back out the window. Techs moved among the equipment, murmuring to one another and making notes, but they did not look directly at the chair's occupant unless they had to, despite the special glasses they wore. _Wise of them. _ They had discovered the hypnotic power of the creatures when one of the previous subjects had nearly escaped, simply by catching the eyes of those about him and suborning their wills. Now anyone entering the room had to wear protective lenses, but they were still cautious. 

_It looks so innocent. _ The thought flashed across her mind before she could crush its subjectivity. The subject in the chair would present a pathetic picture to the untrained eye, she admitted silently. An ignorant observer would see only a young woman, perhaps nineteen, perhaps twenty; slender, shapely, blond, pale. The restraints holding her in the chair would seem ridiculously heavy. But one of the creature's kin had snapped men's arms and necks with easy twists; and there was no telling how old the female actually was. Or how many deaths could be laid at its feet. _ It could be centuries old. _

As though hearing the doctor's thought, the subject turned its head as much as it could and looked up at the window. _It can't see me, even with its eyes, _ the doctor thought, but even so the creature's gaze met her own unerringly through the one-way glass. Hate filled those eyes, and a rage so old that the doctor felt a chill run down her spine. She stepped back involuntarily, and the subject smiled coldly. The points of its teeth flashed in the harsh light of the lab, then vanished as it turned away again. 

The doctor hurried out of the room, suddenly eager for the privacy of her office. Walter's tests could wait; she wanted another look at her notes. 

She had to speak three passwords to reach the level of security that her computer required, but finally the neat blocks of text filled the screen. She scrolled down. _Preys on humans but can subsist on other mammals if necessary...extraordinary strength...some form of psychic (?) hypnosis...senses appear to be superior to those of Homo sapiens...cell and tissue repair is extremely heightened... _

The doctor sat back and remembered those experiments. The first subject's results had not been as good, but the creature had been near death. The second and this, the third, had displayed incredible healing talents. Cuts, burns, bruises all vanished within seconds or minutes; the more severe the injury, the longer it took, which made sense, and stress or starvation also hindered the process. She made a mental note to add amputation to the list. Could the creatures actually grow back missing limbs? 

There were all sorts of sponsors fueling this lab, the doctor knew. Some wanted data that would serve to create weapons or soldiers; others were deeply interested in the possibility of cures for diseases and even immortality. As for the doctor herself, she most wanted to know how much of a threat the creatures were. They were superior to humans in almost every way, except for their sensitivity to sunlight. Were they increasing? Or was their population stable, wolves to the human cattle? 

* * * * *

It was usually late when the doctor left the lab, and tonight was no exception. She sat in her car in the parking garage and rubbed distractedly at the back of the neck, trying to loosen knotted muscles. Working with the new subject was a continuing discovery, but the very nature of the creature meant that everyone was on edge, the doctor no less than any other. 

Abruptly she decided to make a stop on the way home. A small dose of alcohol would help her relax, and might stop the recurring nightmare. _And a little social life wouldn't hurt either, _ she told herself. _You don't get out enough, Doctor. _

The pub she patronized on her rare nights out wasn't crowded when she arrived, but then it rarely was. Part of its charm was its quiet calmness. The rest was its dim, cozy interior and truly astonishing selection of drinks. The doctor got her usual bourbon on the rocks and found an empty wing chair near the fireplace. She couldn't keep herself from a quick glance around, but then scolded herself. _Don't be an idiot. What makes you think you'll see him again? _

A few weeks before, seated at the bar, she had realized she was being watched. Paranoia was the stock in trade of those who worked for her agency, and she had considered carefully before turning to look. But the man seated at the other end of the bar had had nothing but cool appreciation in his gaze. 

Funny, she couldn't remember much about him; just the brilliant blue of his eyes. All the other details seemed blurred, somehow. They hadn't spoken--just watched each other for a long, long moment. Then he had raised his glass in a brief salute, drained it, and left, leaving her with a jumbled impression of attraction and a hint of danger. And when she'd tried to pay for her drink, she found he already had. 

"You're out a little late, aren't you?" 

Her head snapped up. As though he'd stepped from her thoughts, the same man was settling himself into the chair opposite hers, setting his glass down on the tiny table between them. The doctor found herself at an uncharacteristic loss for words. 

"I was working late," she finally managed, and immediately wondered why she felt she owed him an explanation. He smiled, and something shifted in her chest. She knew she was staring, but she couldn't seem to help it, and the analytical part of her mind was taking in details greedily, determined not to be left without this time. 

He wasn't overly tall, she estimated, though he still had plenty of height on her; he wore a blue shirt and had draped a long black coat over the back of the chair. Prematurely silver hair curled carelessly, a frame for those warm, piercing blue eyes and the sensual mouth outlined by an equally silver goatee. He lowered his head a fraction to fix her with his gaze, a smile catching the corners of his lips. "You shouldn't work so hard, Dr. Anastasia," he said softly. "It's bad for your health." 

"How--how did you know my name?" she asked, furious at herself for being so flustered as to stammer. She took a firmer grip on her emotions, retreating toward her usual cool command. 

He shrugged self-deprecatingly. "I asked the bartender." Leaning forward, he picked up his drink and took a sip of the clear liquid. His fingers were long and slender and looked quite strong. 

The doctor swallowed. "What's _your_ name, then?" 

The smile became full-fledged. "Jack Milne." He leaned forward, extending one hand, and she shook it automatically; he let her go as though reluctant to lose touch with her skin. She picked up her own drink and sat back, a deliberately defensive move, but she could still feel the imprint of his hand on hers, a gentle, evocative touch. 

The doctor was quite prepared to ignore him, the pull of attraction notwithstanding--he was powerful, and few powerful men could deal with a powerful woman without feeling threatened. But he drew her into conversation without condescension or bluster, and before she knew it they were debating everything from politics to evolution to household pets. Two hours and another glass of bourbon sped by before the doctor noticed the time. 

"I have to go," she said abruptly, discomfited again by the departure from her usual pattern. 

Milne rose as she did. "I'll see you next week?" he asked easily, and she was surprised at herself when she told him yes. 

* * * * *

She found herself thinking of Milne at odd intervals all week, though she did not allow herself to become distracted from her work. The amputation experiments were scheduled for five weeks in the future; there were a host of tests to be carried out, and all the lab's supporters were impatient for results. Most of the work was handled by Walter and his flock of technicians; the doctor coordinated the data and passed it on to her superiors. 

Three days before she was to see Milne again, Walter drew her aside before she reached her office. "We're getting low on plasma again," he said quietly. 

She sighed impatiently. "So go to one of the hospitals or blood banks. We have the authority--" 

Walter shook his head. "The whole city has a shortage, and that supersedes our credentials. Perhaps we can sacrifice a lab tech." His eyes gleamed, but she ignored the comment and his subsequent sigh. She knew quite well that he thought her without a sense of humor, and she did not care. 

"Send someone over to the agency for a quick drive. I'll write you a note. It's too bad that we can't just use animal blood right now." 

Walter grimaced. "It would be easier, but the latest batch of experiments require human plasma. What we do for science..." 

The doctor wrote him his note and sent him on his way. Consulting her schedule, she found that one of the lab's sponsors wanted information directly from the subject, rather than deduced from experiments. She sighed. This never worked--the subjects never cooperated, and they had yet to discover any way to make them do so. But orders were orders. 

So she donned a pair of protective lenses, took up a clipboard and the questions, and shooed the techs out of the observation room. The subject watched silently as the doctor pulled up a stool near--but not too near--the chair. 

"I have a number of questions," the doctor said briskly. 

For the first time since its capture, the subject spoke. "I'll answer your questions if you'll answer mine." Its voice sounded perfectly normal, the quiet tones of a young woman. 

Surprised by the easy agreement, the doctor thought a moment. "Very well," she said finally. There was little that she could not say to the subject, since it would not be leaving the lab. "How old are you?" 

"I was born in August 650," the creature said without hesitation. "Why are you doing this to me?" 

"We need to learn all we can about what you are and how you work," the doctor replied, hiding her shock at the subject's answer, and doubting its veracity. _Over a thousand years old?! _ "When in August?" 

The creature moved its head in a slight, impatient movement. "I don't know. No one kept track like that then. What have you learned so far?" 

The doctor recited a brief synopsis of their discoveries, which garnered only a small grimace from the subject. The sharp points of its canines flashed dully for an instant. "Where were you born?" she finished. 

"In a village in what is now Germany," the subject said. "It vanished centuries ago. How long do you intend to keep me alive?" 

The doctor had been careful not to look the subject in the face, but the question startled her enough that she looked up. The eyes were dull with exhaustion and dimmed by the doctor's protective lenses, but there was still power there, and the doctor found herself answering without thinking. "As long as possible." 

The creature did not move, did not blink, keeping a delicate hold on the doctor's will. "How can you make yourself do things like this to me?" 

"You're not human," the doctor said, dazed by the eyes. "You kill humans to survive." 

"We all try to survive. It's the strongest, the fastest, the smartest who survive, no matter the species." The creature's voice had dropped to a near-whisper, and when it flexed its arms, the restraints groaned softly. "But what you do isn't for survival. You're not human either, doctor. You stopped being human long ago." 

The terrible eyes slid shut, and suddenly the doctor's will was her own again. She stood up, nearly knocking the stool over, and hurried out of the room, deeply shaken. Reaching the privacy of her office, she looked down at the answers to the questions she had asked, then tore the paper into tiny scraps and dropped them into the wastebasket. The sponsor would be told that the subject had refused to respond. 

* * * * *

The doctor barely glanced up when Milne slid into the seat opposite hers in the pub. Her happy anticipation of the evening had been shattered by the news she'd received on reaching the lab. Milne waited patiently, watching her, until she sighed and shut the folder she held on her lap. 

"I'm sorry," she said. "Today was a disaster at work, and I'm still distracted." 

_ "Doctor Anastasia? I've got bad news." Walter meeting her practically at the door, brow creased with stress. She sighing--her nightmare had returned, and she was tired from inadequate sleep and dreams of smothering feathers. _

"I'm sorry to hear that, Ann," Milne said softly, eyes warm on hers. "Do you want to tell me about it?" 

She hesitated. Normally she spoke to no one about her work, but she needed to talk, and if she kept it general he would never know anything dangerous. "One of our test subjects died today, a very important one." 

_Blood sprayed in obscene swaths around the observation room. Four techs dead, their bodies sprawled limply. The chair's restraints torn impossibly open. _

"You weren't expecting it?" 

She shook her head. "There was a contamination...something went very wrong." 

_The door wrenched open and the subject gone, leaving a half-emptied bag of plasma hanging from the chair and the needle dripping slowly on the smeared floor. _

"We tried to stop it, but it was too late." Milne's eyes on hers were sympathetic, his hand a warm, light pressure on her fingers. 

_ "What happened?" Whirling on Walter in fury and sudden, sickening fear. _

"I don't know!" Fear written large on his face as well. "I got here and saw this. The night shift is all dead. We don't even know where it is!" 

Her mouth tightened. "Weeks of work, hundreds of hours in delicate experiments, and it was all gone. We got some data, but not nearly enough." 

_Sudden insight. The guard cameras showed that it did not leave through the doors. Only one other place it could go--the roof. _

Pounding up the stairs, Walter puffing behind. The door half off its hinges. And--in the early morning sunlight--an ashy shape not six feet away, already beginning to crumble in the wind. It knew. 

"The worst part is, we could have prevented the contamination easily, if we'd known." She sighed in weary anger. 

_Walter holding out a sheaf of printout. "The batch of blood I got from the agency people--one of them was contaminated. Heroin." _

She gaped at him, too astounded to be angry just yet. "How? Didn't you test it?" 

"Of course I tested it!" He glared at her. "But testing for street drugs is not on the standard list! What I can't figure out is how it got in there. The bags didn't leave my control until they hit the fridge here." 

"The donor," she snapped. 

"Too high for that. He'd have been raving, and all the donors were perfectly sane!" But his eyes met hers with growing doubt. 

"The best we can do at this point is try to track down the person responsible for the contamination." She tapped the folder in her lap. "One of our scientists thinks that someone deliberately fouled a batch of...food...intended for the test subject, though we don't know why, or even how they found out where it was going." 

Milne's hand tightened on hers. "And you think you know who might have done it?" 

She shrugged. "There are only five possible culprits, and I have the files on them right here, but I haven't had a chance to look at them yet." 

Milne let her go and took the folders, setting them down on the table. "No homework tonight," he said firmly. "You need to relax." 

He seemed to be determined to charm her into a better mood, and she found it so easy to let him. Tonight was quiet conversation instead of the spirited debates of last week, and her weariness combined with his magnetism meant she kept losing her train of thought and gazing at him dreamily. Normally she would have been horrified at her behavior, but tonight it didn't seem to matter. _ He's so unlike anyone else I've ever met, _ she thought hazily. _So perfect... _

"I'll take you home tonight, Ann," he said finally, smiling at her with promise, his face showing the barest hint of hunger, of desire. She simply nodded and let him take her arm as they walked toward the exit. Outside, he bade her wait while he fetched his car, and she began flipping through the folders as he strode off toward the parking lot, gripping them tightly so the vagrant wind would not snatch them away. 

Five donors, five folders, five files. Four photos. She frowned. Why was one file missing its photo? She glanced down at the description of the donor, and felt all the pleasant warmth drain from her body, to be replaced by a sick chill. _Silver hair, blue eyes... _

She watched the sleek convertible pull up in front of her. Milne got out and came around to open her door, and the wind caught his coat and blew it billowing behind him. It flared like wings, like feathered wings, and she did not have to reach inside his breast pocket to know. But she did anyway, as he stood before her, and unfolded the photo of him. "How did you know?" she asked, oddly calm. 

"The computer system that monitors your lab's blood supply is easily hacked," he said. The desire in his face was gone, but the hunger remained, and she could see the barest gleam of sharp teeth. "I couldn't get in, but I could give her the means to free herself." 

She shook her head numbly, hearing the rush of wind in feathers. "Why?" she asked. "Why do you do this?" 

He bent close, and she smelled the rich, bitter-edged scent of him. "Survival," he told her quietly. "Isn't that why you do what you do?" 

She closed her eyes. The cloak of feathers surrounded her. 


End file.
